Mystery

“I’m interested in what you thought, Tom. I wish you would tell me.”

“It’s pretty clear that he was stealing Treasury money, isn’t it?” When Upshaw did not respond, Tom said, “At least, all the news stories make it sound that way. When he worked for you he must have been honest, but after he came into power he began stealing with both hands. When his sister wanted a cut, he murdered her and thought he could get away with it.”

“That would be an odd assumption.”

“It was just talk I heard. Um, from other students around school.”

Upshaw was still staring at him. “What else did these students imagine?”

“That the police killed the Minister and framed that man.”

“So the police department is corrupt too.”

Tom did not answer.

“Which means that the government is corrupt too, I suppose.”

“That’s what it would mean,” Tom said.

“How did these friends of yours account for the letter Fulton Bishop received?”

“Oh,” Tom said.

“The letter from a private citizen that helped pinpoint this man Foxhall Edwardes as Miss Hasselgard’s killer. I’d say that this letter pretty well negates most of your theory at one go. Because it means that Hasselgard did not murder his sister. Therefore, she did not demand a cut of the take, and therefore, the police did not cover up her murder—so the corruption seems to stop at Hasselgard. Do you believe that Captain Bishop got that letter, or do you think he invented the whole thing in order to corroborate the official version?”

“I think he got a letter,” Tom said.

“Good. Paranoia has not completely destroyed your mind.” He drained the rest of his martini, and, as if on cue, Mrs. Kingsley appeared with her tray clamped under her elbow and an ice bucket in her hands. From the top of the bucket protruded the neck of an open wine bottle. “You’ll stick to beer?”

Tom nodded.

Mrs. Kingsley laboriously placed the heavy bucket beside Upshaw’s plate and removed two glasses from the shaved ice around the bottle. She unclamped the tray and set Upshaw’s martini glass on it, and then went around to place the second wineglass before Gloria. Gloria gripped her martini glass with both hands, like a child who fears the loss of a toy. Mrs. Kingsley faded back into the dining room. A minute later she returned with a larger tray containing three bowls of gazpacho, which she placed atop their plates.

She went back inside the house. Glendenning Upshaw sampled the cold soup and looked at Tom again. He was no longer angry. “In a way, I’m almost happy that you have spoken as you have this morning. It means that I’ve come to the right decision.”

Gloria froze with her spoon halfway to her mouth.

“I think your horizons need widening.”

“My father said something about your being willing to set me up in business after I get out of college. That’s very generous. I don’t quite know what to say, except thanks. So thank you.”

His grandfather waved this away. “You’re applying to Tulane?”

Tom nodded.

“Louisiana is full of opportunities. I know a lot of good men there. Some of them would be happy to take you on once you have your engineering degree.”

“I haven’t really decided what I’ll take in college,” Tom said.

“Stick with engineering.”

“Oh, yes, Tom,” his mother said.

“It’s a foundation. It’ll give you everything you need. If you want to study poetry and the collected works of V.I. Lenin, you can do it in your spare time.”

“I don’t know if I’d be a good engineer,” Tom said.

“Well, just what do you think you’d be good at? Biting the hand that feeds you? Insulting your family? I don’t think Tulane offers degrees in those subjects yet.” He simmered for a while. Tom and Gloria occupied themselves with their soup. After a moment he remembered the wine, and angrily snatched the bottle from the bucket. He poured wine into his glass, then into Gloria’s. “Let me tell you something. Engineering is the only real subject. Everything else is just an academic exercise.”

“It’s going to take time to work things out,” Tom said.

“It’s a wonderful idea, Daddy,” Gloria said.

“Let’s hear Tom say that.” He pushed his bowl away.

“Go on,” Gloria said.

“It’s a wonderful idea.” Tom could feel his face getting hot. He thought: This is how people become invisible.

“Your tuition will be taken care of, of course. Ah, Mrs. Kingsley, what are we having, lobster salad? Excellent. We are celebrating my grandson’s decision to major in engineering at Tulane.”

“That’s beautiful,” the old woman said, placing another tray on the table.

Almost as soon as they had begun eating, Tom’s grandfather said, “Have you ever seen Eagle Lake?”

Tom looked up in surprise.

“You haven’t, have you? Gloria, when was the last time you saw Eagle Lake?”

“I don’t remember.” Gloria had a guarded, suspicious expression on her face.

“You were just a little girl, anyhow.” He turned to Tom again. “Eagle Lake has an unhappier meaning for us than it does for our friends.” Tom thought he was referring to Jeanine Thielman, then realized that he meant the death of his wife. “We suffered a great loss there. I’ve found reasons to stay away ever since.” Except for the summer after your loss, Tom thought. “I was a busy man, of course, my work just ran me off my feet—but was I as busy as all that? I can’t be sure.”

“You were working hard,” Gloria said, and shivered.

Upshaw glanced impatiently at his daughter. “At any rate, the lodge has been there all these years, under the care of various housekeepers. You remember Miss Deane, don’t you, Gloria? Barbara Deane?”

She looked down at her plate. “Of course.”

“Barbara Deane has taken care of the lodge for something like twenty years—local people named Truehart did the job before that.”

Tom wondered at his mother’s sulkiness, and thought that Barbara Deane must have been another of Glendenning Upshaw’s old mistresses.

“Anyhow,” the old man said, with the air of wheeling some heavy object into view, “the old place hasn’t seen any real company for decades. Ordinarily, a young man of your situation would have spent every summer of the past ten years up north. Most of your friends must spend their summers there, and I’ve been thinking that our tragedy has kept you from it for too long.”

Gloria said something soft but vehement to herself.

“Glor?”

She shook her head.

He went back to Tom. “I’ve been thinking of showing our old lodge a bit of life. How do you think you’d like to spend a month or so at the lake?”

“I’d love to. It would be great.”

His mother uttered an almost inaudible sigh, and patted her lips with a pink napkin.

“A carefree summer before your hard work begins.”

And then Tom understood—Eagle Lake was a reward for having agreed to major in engineering. His grandfather was not a subtle man.

“I can’t go to Eagle Lake,” his mother said. “Or aren’t I included in this invitation?”

“We want to keep you here, Gloria. I’ll feel easier, having you around.”

“You want to keep me here. You’d feel easier, having me around. What you mean is, you want to take everything away from me all over again—don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean, because you do.”

Upshaw set down his knife and fork and assumed a bland, innocent look. “Are you implying that you do want to go? Or that I wouldn’t worry about you, all the way up there?”

“You know I can’t go there. You know I couldn’t stand it. Why not just say it?”